


burn;

by MistyMoon



Series: (almost) dead (almost) poets [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Underage Drinking, sai is one of his friends from school fyi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:12:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyMoon/pseuds/MistyMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not allowed, you think.<br/>She won't allow it, you think.<br/>You do it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn;

**Author's Note:**

> id apologize for this fic but tbh ive been wanting to finish this for ages so  
> enjoy the suffer tm  
> also unbetad so rip

The alcohol burns the back of your throat. The lights feel a bit too bright for your eyes and they keep offering you more and more. And you keep drinking and drinking, until you stop feeling the bitterness of the taste.  
You can't make the words out of people's voices anymore, your head is spinning, the music is too loud.  
You don't remember much after that.  
-  
Your head is pounding and your throat feels raw.  
You don't recognize the sheets you're lying on; they're a bright yellow. You've never had bright sheets.  
You don't know where you are.  
There's a cup of water and some pills on the bedside table, along with a person reading a magazine on the floor.  
"Sai?" your voice sounds rough and it hurts.  
"Oh, you're awake. Ken saw you get wasted last night, felt sorry for you and brought you here," she put her magazine down. "You should be thankful; he had to carry you up the stairs."  
"Oh my god."  
"He's okay, don't worry," she got up and grabbed a black backpack near the door and threw it on the bed. "Here's your stuff. Ken almost didn't find it."  
"Thanks."  
You look at the time on your phone. You should go home before your mom freaks out.  
You take the pills, get your stuff, and leaves.  
You decided not to tell your mother.  
-  
The next time you taste it again, it's been nearly a week. You forgot the bitterness of the taste, how it made everything louder, brighter.  
How it made everything _better_.  
You've been taking shots all night long; the burn is nothing new for you.  
They told you to calm down, take it easy, before anything bad happened.  
You ignored them.  
You shouldn't have.  
When you got home, you went to the bathroom almost immediately. You felt as if someone set fire to your body.  
-  
In a few months, the bottom of the glass became your new home.  
It was unhealthy, you knew, but it allowed you to forget, to pretend your problems weren't actually yours. Nothing else did the same.  
Drinking felt like a way to get rid of everything you hated. It turned them into ashes, that you either buried down deep inside your body, or you flushed down the toilet. Sometimes both.  
It was slowly becoming a bad habit.  
If you didn't stop, you'd lose control of the situation. That, if you didn't already.  
-  
It was becoming a routine.  
You got drunk almost every week now, and the taste no longer felt unfamiliar, your throat no longer felt raw in the morning.  
And even though you knew that was worrying, your mother still didn't know.  
You couldn't bring yourself to tell her the truth. Not because it'd be too much for her, but because she'd take it away from you. You'd never drink again, you'd never feel at ease again.  
She'd take away your safe haven. You couldn't let her do that.  
You wanted to keep some things to yourself, just for once.  
-  
You had to force yourself not to drink every day. It felt needed,  as if the bitterness was no longer an addition, and yes a part of you.  
You kept finding reasons and reasons for why you shouldn't wait a few more days, a few more hours.  
But you waited. You waited, because you knew what would happen if you didn't.  
You knew the kind of things that could happens. And, even though you didn't show it, you were afraid. You were afraid, no, _terrified_ , of losing control, of losing yourself, and losing more than just things that belong to you.  
You're afraid of taking away things that aren't yours to take, that aren't yours to play with.  
It helps you maintain control, this fear.  
It's a curse, but at the same time, a blessing.  
-  
The desire is too tempting.  
Sometimes, you feel the taste in your mouth when you haven't had it in days.  
It's becoming an obsession, and you're doing nothing to stop it.  
(you're losing it, you don't mind it)  
(you want it, you need it)  
(you don't want the control, you want the pleasure, the stability, the relief)  
(you want _us_ )  
(us, us, only us)  
(we know you want to give in)  
They're not wrong.  
-  
They get the best of you.  
You're not hearing them anymore, and it feels like you've never heard them in first place.  
You feel at easy, as if you had no reason to be there, it was just some fun time.  
You're laughing and your head feels light and you don't think you can count the number of shots you've taken in both hands anymore, but it doesn't matter.  
You feel good, happy. It doesn't feel like your father is sitting on your shoulders, marking your grades on your arms. It doesn't feel like your mother is staring at you with her love mask, signing your death certificate with you in the room, whispering "I love you"s for him that ended up in your ears.  
You could forget all of that, if you wanted.  
Maybe you should.  
-  
It burns.  
There's a fire inside that keeps sending shivers down your spine.  
You can't feel the coldness of the glass; you don't know if it's even cold anymore, how long have you been holding it?  
You ears are warm and, for a second, you think they're bleeding from all the noise around you. You touch them; they're not warm. They're not cold either.  
You don't know if it's the things' fault or if you're the only one who can't feel them.  
You don't know much at this point. It's been too long; two, maybe three hours. You'd look at the time on your phone if you knew where it was.  
You don't recognize the people around you; should you? do they knew you? do you know them?  
You don't know.  
Your phone lights up on your hand (so that's where it was) and he's asking you where you are.  
It's 3am.  
You shouldn't be here.  
-  
You keep tripping; walking is now a challenge for you.  
The burn keeps getting worse and worse and it feels like an actual fire inside of you.  
This shouldn't be happening. You shouldn't be here.  
You feel warm; it feels like you're under the covers, sleeping.  
You can't focus on details. Everything is blurry and you feel dizzy. Things sometimes spin.  
You don't know if they should be doing that.  
You don't know anything.  
You don't think you do, at least.  
-  
There's a bed.  
You're laying on a bed.  
You don't remember getting there, you don't remember walking up the stairs.  
Everything is spinning and your head hurts.  
It's hard to think, hard to move, hard to scream, hard to do anything.  
You didn't know if that meant you weren't alive anymore or not.  
-  
You feel the burn again.  
It's in your throat now, and it's familiar.  
Too familiar.  
You don't question it.  
-  
You can't feel anything.  
You can't see anything.  
You can't _do_ anything.  
You'd be terrified if you were aware of what was happening.  
You weren't.  
-  
You woke up to blinding white lights and beeping noises.  
You saw your mother sleeping on a chair next to the bed.  
Bed. A white bed. You don't remember it being white. Was it white?  
You didn't know.  
You didn't remember.  
You barely remembered anything.  
You decided to ignore the lights and went back to sleep.  
-  
The next time you opened your eyes, your mother was awake. She was holding your hand.  
She looked at you and didn't say anything. She sighed and kissed your forehead.  
She knew, you knew she knew about the drinking. But she wasn't saying anything; did she really know?  
"Eita." there was clear disappointment in her voice. She knew.  
She didn't yell at you. All she did was make simple questions, ask you to be honest with her (you were, even if you didn't want to), and ask you if you were okay.  
And then she explained where you were and why you were there.  
Hospital. Alcohol intoxication. You've been unconscious for a day.  
You wanted to throw up.  
You knew she blamed herself, you knew she thought she should've known about all of this. You knew you should say something.  
You didn't.  
She continued to explain your situation.  
You didn't want to hear any more of it. You didn't want to know how badly you had fucked up. You decided to ignore it and just wait for the consequences.  
You didn't know they'd be so bad.  
You wish you didn't know.  
-  
You got discharged, eventually.  
It didn't make a difference; you were still in a place you didn't want to be, near people you wish you didn't know.  
And you couldn't drink anymore. They said you had damaged your liver pretty badly, and it would be best to stop drinking to avoid further complications.  
It didn't sound like it'd be hard, but after a week, you thought it was impossible.  
The thing was, you _could_ drink, but not too much. And that was the impossible part. No matter how much you knew it'd ruin you, you could barely control yourself.  
The desire was too much for you. You wanted more and more and more, but you couldn't have it.  
You didn't know how people did it. You were going to find out eventually, though.  
You really didn't want to.  
-  
It wasn't easy.  
There were ups and downs (more downs than ups), but you're in the beginning of your second year now. It's been almost an year.  
Your mother said she was proud of you, but you didn't feel all that great. It didn't mean anything for you.  
Nothing meant anything. This was just another thing.  
-  
There was nothing that could help you not think about your problems anymore.  
There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
You threw everything you had in the fire because you couldn't control yourself.  
Now you had nothing left.  
Nothing.


End file.
